Chapter 16 #2
‘Can I trust you on that? Because I got very high on your massage! Remember when you gave me a massage? It was… Chef kiss!’ Charles joins his thumb and forefinger together, looking at Loris through the circle.
‘And I was thick, really. It wasn’t your massage I was obsessed with, it was your hands touching me.
I blame the prejudiced twat for not taking the hint.
The moron who didn’t think you could know your art.
Remember him? Well, he’s very dense! Tons and tons of preconceived ideas.
And being into a guy? Never! Ledwells are straight, Sir, yes Sir!
They keep a straight face, they stand straight, think straight and fuck straight.
All straight! Nah, I’m boiling.’ Charles shakes his hands at the t-shirt Loris is offering him and loses his own shirt.
‘So you see, I couldn’t possibly be into you.
And then, I was very possibly into you, but I couldn’t.
’ He pulls down his jeans and wiggles to free his feet.
‘Because my father, if he learns that I wank in the shower thinking of you, he’ll send me to conversion therapy.
Which is funny because he wouldn’t send me to therapy to fix anything else.
Well, no, it’s not funny, he’s a total dickhead, but— Come on! ’
His left ankle is stuck in the jeans. He hops towards the sofa for support, but when Loris reaches for him, Charles grabs his shoulder instead. It’s nicer. There’s more muscle on his shoulder than on the sofa.
‘You’re perfect like your drawings.’
‘Charles…’
‘Yes, fer de croix, I knooooow.’
He contorts himself to tugs at the jeans, his face an inch away from Loris’ V-line. This is torture. He’s so attracted to Loris.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ Loris asks, releasing him from his caring grasp. ‘More water?’
‘No, I want to explain why I brainwashed myself because I had to stop wanting you.’
‘You kind of did, and I really need to—’
‘I did? Good! So you understand why I couldn’t see you.
If you’ve ever looked at yourself. You’re like the anti-brainwash.
Which makes you a… braindirt? No, that doesn’t sound right.
In any case, I had to stop wanting you. Wanting you seemed so complicated and messy, and everything in my life is already messy.
So I said, “No, Charles, no Loris for you!” and I’m quite good at getting over things I want.
It should have been easy peasy grenadine squeezy, but…
’ He squishes Loris’ cheeks. ‘It wasn’t!
I kept looking at your profile picture. That didn’t help.
You know you look a bit stupid in that photo?
With your hair dyed all blond as if you were a member of NSYNC.
I love that photo of you. And the more I looked at it, the more I realised you’re the kind of stupid I need.
You’re… You’re the plate of spinach I’d break my arm for.
You’re— Hold on.’ Charles plants his fists on his waist, staring at the duvet cover.
‘Have you changed your sheets since Enzo slept here?’
‘What?’
‘Did you see Enzo when you were in France?’
He looks back at Loris who raises an indignant eyebrow. Charles has no right to ask that. Oops.
He slumps onto the bed. His hip hurts. Why does his hip hurt? Must be Enzo’s fault.
‘I hated his guts.’ Charles groans and throws the sock he just took off all the way to the coffee table. ‘I didn’t get it, but I was very jealous of the guy.’
Loris comes closer, with the same smile he tried to conceal earlier. ‘I think you might regret some things you said tonight, so you should stop and—’
‘Freedom of speech! Aren’t you from the country of human rights? Liberté, égalité, Frappuccino and all that? Hey, you know what?’ Charles yawns and stretches out. ‘I’m a bit drunk. And tired.’
‘This is my side.’
‘I’m sleeping on it, then.’
‘Not on my pillow, no. You don’t want to use the bathroom?’
‘Another day.’ Charles shifts on his back and raises his hips to make it easier for Loris to pull the duvet. ‘We don’t need that.’
‘I do.’
He rolls again to tug at Loris’ sweatpants. ‘You don’t need that.’
‘I make the rules in my own bed.’ Loris swats his hand and sits on the mattress. ‘Can you move a bit?’
Charles would rather stay where he is and taste the roll of skin that has swallowed the V-line above Loris’ waistband. But that’s probably not part of the rules, so he obeys.
‘You’re in charge of the light switch.’
That’s nice of Loris to entrust Charles with such a responsibility. Lights are important. There are so many piercing the ceiling, like stars in Kitzbühel.
Charles squints and swings his head to merge the halos.
‘So… can you switch off?’
‘I’m reorganising the sky. I’m repainting it. It’s just like paint, look! I can mix it or…’ He turns on his side, waving his forefinger between them, where the spots of light follow. ‘Or smear it all over your face.’
‘Please. It’s late.’
‘Yes. I said I was tired.’
Charles closes his eyes. The lights keep dancing.
Loris sighs and twists himself above him to reach the switch. Charles squeezes his eyelids and his fists, the way Loris did earlier to refrain from touching him. It truly requires great effort. They will have to amend this ridiculous rule.
He relaxes when Loris lies back next to him. The luminous specks are fading, but the bed is now floating among stardust.
‘Your mattress is comfy. I’m sure you’re comfier, but your mattress will do.’
Charles lodges his ankle between Loris’ legs. Is it against the rules? Loris doesn’t protest. He’s staying completely still, so Charles reopens his eyes. The curtains aren’t opaque enough, they let the foggy glow of the street lamps through and allow him to discern Loris’ concerned expression.
‘Why so serious?’
‘You okay?’
Charles hums. He’s okay, he’s here. He’s not home. He will hate it if he goes home. Oh, he will hate everything there, he can feel it in his gut. But he’s not home right now. There’s nothing to hate in the flat. He hums again and caresses Loris’ nose.
‘You shine even in the dark…’
‘Goodnight, Charles.’
‘G’night, One L.’
His eyelids are heavy, so he lets them fall, even if that means not looking at Loris anymore.
It’s alright, he will see him tomorrow. They have so much kissing and touching to do tomorrow morning. And less important stuff, but everything is important if they do it together.
‘Loris?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Tomorrow we’ll have to do something about your handwriting…’
If Charles wrote with Loris’ handwriting, his novel would be in French. And he would write it on a boat. He’s on a fisher boat. But he’s not writing. He’s conducting the waves with batons, instructing them to propel him towards a grinning sun on a ceiling-sky.